


sit up (clear the lungs)

by StormySkiesAhead



Series: pestilence loves war (more than any other) [3]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: (it's a draw), (my au that's star wars vs avian flu), 1918 flu pandemic, Gen, Influenza, Some Mild Angst, Team as Family, a little bit of both from what I mentioned I might add last time!, and i didn't want to deal with star wars for a little while, at the very least read open up the window first, dooku and obi wan have tea, especially not star wars content on THIS site, he's alive because i said so, mentions of padawan death, oh also have some feemor, partially because i was PISSED about tros and That Scene existing, this isn't going to make sense without it, this one took a little bit longer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-25 05:47:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21910960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormySkiesAhead/pseuds/StormySkiesAhead
Summary: Supreme Chancellor Sheev Palpatine is dead, has been for a while now. As it turns out, he's also been Darth Sidious for while now, too. The survivors of the influenza pandemic gather, and the cease-fire continues.-(Or: obi-wan makes dooku feel guilty over tea)
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: pestilence loves war (more than any other) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1566916
Comments: 10
Kudos: 76





	sit up (clear the lungs)

**Author's Note:**

> well apparently i had more This in me

They don’t keep the vaccines and antivirals away from the Separatists. Oh, they tried- well, very specifically, epidemiologist Maiza Kida is of the opinion that very specifically,  _ Chancellor Palpatine _ tried- but they’d fought them as hard as they could, and eventually, the Senate had dropped the issue.

And so, Maiza finds herself on a Separatist ship, very aware of the exceedingly tall Sith Lord breathing down the back of her neck.

The grey-eyed doctor pins her ears to the back of her head, and blinks up at him.

“Is there anyone specific you’d like me to attend to, sir? You were vaccinated first when we arrived, if I recall correctly.”

_ ‘Show no fear,’ _ she thinks,  _ ‘You may not be some Count or be related to personal family friends of some royalty like the Princess Consort is, but you  _ are _ an expert in your field, and you _ did _ work on these yourself. You’re probably older than him, anyways.’ _

She is. The Count narrows his eyes, and gestures with his hand for her to follow, cape (or is it a cloak?) sweeping behind him. Maiza follows closely, wings tucked so tightly into each other that she’s afraid the shaking might be visible. It’s only when she hears the coughing and the rasping breathing that she realizes what the Count has brought her here to do.

“I’m an epidemiologist, not a general practitioner. I have antivirals for her, and I can administer them, but I’m not going to be able to list off every little thing you need to do to get her back on her feet,” she says gently, “If you want to talk long-term care, Fir is a general practitioner, but I can help a little bit.”

She pulls a stethoscope out of her bag, and gets to work. If she can get the basics done, when Fir arrives to take over, she’ll have some basic readings to give them.

The young woman on the bed stares into her eyes, and Maiza’s pinned ears pin back further in faint fear, but she’s never been one to back down from her duty.

“I swore an oath to do no harm,” she says flatly, “While some may see letting this disease run this course would be doing  _ less _ harm than working to save your life, I’ve never seen it that way. The medicine we’ll give you is trustworthy, so  _ stop looking at me like that. _ ”

The last breaks the flatness and moves ever-so-faintly into hysterics. The Sith apprentice- Ventress, Maiza thinks her name was- laughs a high, rasping laugh, interrupted sporadically by coughing fits.

“Let’s get you sat up,” she says softly, “If you stay lying down, you won’t be able to clear your lungs.”

The Count returns with Fir, who helps her lift Ventress up evenly. Maiza doesn’t really notice the quiet conversation her stoic partner in disease-fighting is having with the Count, too busy equally quietly recording more and more about Ventress’s reaction to the disease.

“Both her hearts appear to be functioning properly,” she says under her breath, “But her lungs are clearly filled with fluid. She’s the first Dathomirian Zabrak we’ve found to have come down with influenza. Insure she receives treatment for the secondary pneumonia infection she has at the moment, as well as the antivirals for the influenza itself. We’ve left instructions for your medical droids.”

The Count looks like he wants to argue, but closes his mouth instead. Smart.

“You know, I think he was asking  _ me _ if  _ I  _ knew anything about the spread. I told him that’s your job,” Fir says, a spark in their warm ink-green eyes.

“Thanks. Now, let’s keep working, shall we?”

* * *

Count Dooku is a strange man, they think. Fir isn't one to judge, but the tall, imposing man follows them around needlessly, for at least a week after they and their colleague have given him instructions and antivirals for the ‘dear apprentice’ that, by all accounts, he cares very little for.

If Fir was a more easily irritable human, they'd have probably pointed this out by now, but instead they sit back and watch as Maiza gets far more irritated instead, and resist the urge to laugh.

“You know, you should probably just talk to him,” the human tells their friend, who snarls irritably and rakes her hands through her hair.

“I'm NOT going to talk to him! I don't care if he's a Sith Lord or not, I am not going to speak to the man who took one look at  _ me  _ and automatically assumed I had a bedside manner!”

“You don't.”

“I know, Fir! I told him several times to go get  _ you _ instead- you're a multi-species general practitioner, you’re more familiar with direct care than I am- this is the first time I've been more than a planet away from my laboratories in  _ centuries _ and he just assumed the less feminine of the two of us was  _ automatically _ the one to ask about the logistical and statistical aspects of the outbreak-”

“That's fair.  _ I'm  _ obviously not excusing anything, but the dude’s like eighty, right? Figures he'd have some out of date ideas.”

“ _ How is  _ eighty  _ old?” _

Fir stares at their friend, who stares right back at them.

“Right. Uhm. Cultural norms, here. Humans don’t tend to live past the eighty to one hundred year range.”

“Oh. Right. I forgot about that. Sorry, Pine Needles.”

Fir makes a fake affronted noise at her, covering their mouth with a hand, but doesn’t throw up anything else reasonably referred to as a fuss.

“Let’s just get to the next planet, Fuzzball,” they reply. If Maiza wasn’t clearly worried about caving their head in on accident, they might have received a tail slap to the back of the head for that. Instead-

“My feathers are  _ sleek _ and  _ well-groomed _ , Pine Needles.”

“Whatever you say, Fuzzball.”

That actually  _ does _ get them a slap on the back of their head for their snark, but it’s a light one, and clearly only meant teasingly, and so Fir doesn’t take it seriously.

* * *

Glen watches in the corner of his eye as the General paces. His ears are pinned back like some great unhappy cat, and his claws scrape and skitter along the walls delicately, before digging in deeper. Glen’s just glad the  _ jetii _ is angry  _ for _ them- it will make calming him down just a little bit easier.

“What does General Yoda say? Release your anger into the Force, or something like that?”

_ “I’m not angry for me, _ ” General Tavi growls, “And if that anger gets me to  _ do something- _ ”

“The Commander is right, Master,” Commander Harzen says (Glen softly interjects that he has a  _ name _ , he’d rather they  _ use it _ ), “Anger is only going to get you to do something rash and idiotic and it’s more likely to get innocent people killed.”

“Yes, Glen, Taina, you’re both right,” General Tavi says, digging clawed hands through his hair, “But-”

“But  _ nothing _ , General, you’re going to sit down and calm down. Anger’s not going to be useful here. Rationalism and compassion will be.”

A few years ago, Glen would have shied away from issuing something even mildly resembling a  _ command _ to his commanding officer, but General Tavi had told them a long time ago that he was a teacher, not a soldier, and that he was  _ not _ , in fact, infallible, and being talked down to on occasion was good for growth. It’s the knowledge that he won’t be reprimanded or reassigned for the suggestion that allows him to make it.

“What am I doing?” General Tavi asks in a small, trembling voice. Glen moves to back out of the room, but Commander Harzen roots him to the ground with a glare and movies beside her teacher.

“ _ You’re _ training  _ me. _ I was under the impression that you despise Padawans doing emotional labor for their Masters and that you believe it screws us up in the head after a while. Now, are you going to stop moping and getting angry when we need you to be in control of yourself? United fronts, Master.”

Taina Harzen, for such a young thing, is  _ frightfully _ intelligent. And she knows just the words to get under the General’s skin, to work into his bones like the strings of a puppet or the crackle of electricity and pull him to finally stand.

Glen wishes he had any talent in that sort of thing, but he’ll leave it to his fellow Commander at the moment.

“Alright, then,” the General says, “If we’re going to be sitting on leave and staring aimlessly at the wall until the talks either go sour or something else comes up, we shouldn’t be idle. Let’s head to the training grounds, we should be working on incorporating your saber forms into live combat. Glen, you’re welcome to join us if you’d like, or head out if you wish, no pressure either way.”

“Sir?”

“We’re all off-duty, Glen. Right now, the only claim I have to that title is my status as a Jedi Master. I’m not going to get pissy if you use my name.”

Glen starts, and stares.

“Ah- should I just call you Mordechai, then?”

“Chai works just fine,” he says, with a bit of roughness at the beginning of the word, “My sister calls me Lucky, but that’s a nickname that needs a bit of explaining. My old Master used to call me  _ Sparky _ of all things. Whatever feels right, I won’t get fussy about it.”

There’s a faint teasing tone to his voice. There’s an everything-is-right-in-the-world look in the man’s violet eyes, and Glen follows easily as he watches Master duel with Padawan, lightsabers shining in the dark of the evening, before every single building on the surface of Coruscant deems it necessary to turn all of their exterior lights on.

* * *

Obi-Wan Kenobi is  _ the Negotiator _ for a reason. And so, he sits, with his Grandmaster in front of him, a tightness around the old man’s eyes but no harsh breathing that would suggest he’d ever been a victim of the pandemic like so many others had been. No, Count Dooku is the picture of health, beyond a hint of tiredness.

“We’ve come to negotiate terms of surrender, Count. It’s come to the Council and the Senate’s attentions that you were acting as the apprentice of Darth Sidious, also known as Emperor Palpatine, and not of your own accord. We can still end this peacefully.”

The Count smiles weakly, and his fingers brush over the hexagonal symbol on his arm- the Seperatist symbol, Obi-Wan knows. He resists the urge to let his own fingers wander to his mark as a member of the Order, placed high on his shoulder, and instead locks eyes with Count Dooku again.

“I fear, my dear Grand-Padawan, that may not be possible. I am aware that those of the Republic believe that the Confederacy of Independent Systems is only made up of corporations and the like, but many of our member worlds, so to speak, will see it as an affront and a betrayal to rejoin such a corrupt Senate once again.”

“Surely that is not the extent of their worries. At the very least, an extension of the cease-fire would be in order, would it not? And freedom for our medical ships to pass into Separatist territory, so we may treat your ill.”

“That’s not all you plan on asking,” Dooku says, dipping his head to the side. Obi-Wan shoves back his feelings, and stares dead-eyed at Dooku.

“The return of General Grievous’s ‘trophies’ would also be… appreciated. We may not have full bodies to burn, but the braids of the Padawans he’d killed while he was alive can be treated similarly, and the lightsabers should be returned as well. They should be laid to rest as best they can.”

His voice doesn’t shake. Obi-Wan is glad for at least that much. Anger vibrates behind his ribcage, the desperate, helpless kind of anger that only appears after the fact, but he lets it go. He cannot lose himself, not here, not now. He can’t break his composure, can’t grip his blade with rage. He locks eyes with Commander Cody, instead.

_ ‘If you lose yourself to anger, you put him and all the men you’ve brought here with you at risk.’ _ he thinks,  _ ‘Keep control. For them.’ _

To Dooku, he thinks-  _ ‘You trained the beast that took our children, who killed our friends. You have no right to call yourself my Grand-Master.’ _

He stands, eventually. There’s not been much verbal back-and-forth, and it seems that even the Negotiator can’t pull more than a ceasefire out of the Count- not here, at least. Not now.

Obi-Wan clutches a familiar padawan’s braid as he makes his way to the bridge.

“Feemor will be happy to have this,” he says quietly, “He’s never sat on the Council, never been a Master proper- none of his students have ever passed their Trials- but he has a right to grieve them, like we both had a right to mourn Master Qui-Gon. I believe it may be why Count Dooku gave it to me.”

“Why, sir, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“It’s alright, I was hoping to be able to unpack  _ this _ particular piece of emotional baggage at some point. The closest thing most Jedi ever get to a parent are our Masters,” he replies, easy as breathing, “I was Master Jinn’s student, as was Knight Feemor. Count Dooku- before he Turned- was Master Jinn’s teacher. He wasn’t always a Dark Side user, wasn’t always relentless the way he is now.”

“Oh?”

“He was a kind, grandfatherly old man when I was a Padawan. He didn’t turn to the Dark, I believe, until well after he’d already left- he seemed kind and light enough, if aggrieved, after my old Master’s death.  _ I used to hide behind his robes when I’d done something to upset Master Qui-Gon. _ ”

The last one is said with an air of hysterically, and despite the bucket in the way, he can practically  _ feel _ Cody’s surprise.

“Sir?”

“That’s the real reason, I think, that they sent me here. I may be a Master on the Council to most of the Order, but to Count Dooku, I’m likely still that wide-eyed Padawan.”

Feemor, as it turns out, is glad to have the braid back. He turns it over in his hands, eyes filled with unshed tears.

Obi-Wan’s eyes flick over to Anakin, leaning awkwardly on a borrowed cane in the corner, still stubbornly attempting to walk without it (later, Obi-Wan will chastise him for jeopardizing the recovery of his lungs for something like  _ walking _ ), and he thinks, just for a moment, that while he might not know Feemor’s grief exactly, he knows he probably wouldn’t cope as well as his fellow had.

* * *

Count Dooku of Serenno has only two living Padawans of his Padawan, through his second. His first, a dead end, dead by the start of the war. His second, dead, with two living Padawans of his own- one a Master and one a Knight- and a deceased user of the Dark Side among his own students.

Count Dooku ignores the swell of pride he feels when he watches the Padawan of his Padawan command his men, ignores the way it almost chokes him.

“Would you like to have tea, sometime? You and Feemor both. We may be on opposite sides of a war, but that does not mean we must be cruel to one another, not anymore, not without Sidious looming over both of our heads.”

Obi-Wan cocks his head to the side like he did when he was still a curious Initiate, desperately vying for Qui-Gon’s attention to practically the point of tears (he remembers, oh he does, that if he wasn’t having serious doubts about the Order, he might have snatched up the boy for a Padawan himself, like Master Yoda had done for him).

“Perhaps,” he says, voice soft. Dooku feels the slightest smile twitch onto his face, and takes the time to bow out gracefully.

_ ‘We’ve become such a mess, haven’t we?’ _ he thinks, as he watches his Grand-Padawan’s ship leave.

* * *

“We’re going to have to come up with a plan,” Tavi says from the corner of the room, and Anakin nods in agreement.

“Are we sure guilt-tripping Dooku with Obi-Wan and Feemor and Yoda won't work? From what you said, he seemed mildly desperate when you spoke with him,” Ashoka says, turning to Obi-Wan, who shrugs his shoulders.

“It might. Grievous is dead, we’ve saved his current apprentice from choking on land like most of the rest of us did. If we- if we push it, perhaps we could get him to back down, but the real fact of the matter is- do we want to? We’ve already gone over that the Senate is corrupt- if blockades stop and the cease-fire continues and we can push the corporations away from the member worlds-”

“They tried to  _ kill  _ our  _ children _ by  _ turning our friends against us! _ ” Anakin yells in a rasping voice, eyes wide and halfway to feral. Master Secura turns wide, concerned eyes to him and takes a hesitant step forwards.

“We need to calm down,” Master Windu says, “all of us. It will do none of us any good if we are scattered and upset- we need to have a specific plan, and we need to execute it well.”

There are a few flinches, Anakin amongst them, at the word ‘Execute.’

“Sidious is not damaging the war effort in both sides anymore. There's a significant possibility that many will pull out of the Separatist alliance-”

“And there’s an  _ equally significant possibility  _ that most of the sabotage has been  _ in the Republic’s favor- _ ” Anakin interrupts. The edge of hysteria has returned to his voice.

“Not likely, this is. In the Separatists’ favor, most of the sabotage has been. Blind,  _ we _ have been. Blind, the Senate has been. An extension of the ceasefire, we must request. Delay any action, we must. Opened, a possibility for peace has been.”

“You're right, Master Yoda,” Obi-Wan says, “A possibility for peace has been opened- a door has been opened. We would be wise to step through it before it closes for good on us.”

* * *

Tea. With Count Dooku.

It's an interesting thing, of course. They discuss outbreaks, preventatives, treatments- influenza has given them a common ground, to say the least, even if it pains Obi-Wan greatly to know what exactly-  _ how many _ exactly- that common ground has cost.

Billions. On Coruscant alone, it killed  _ billions. _ Trillions, likely, is the real number, given how quickly it launched itself from planet to planet.

There is a hint of grief in Dooku’s eyes, as well, though Obi-Wan’s not quite sure their grief is for the same reasons.

“We may be of the Dark Side,” Dooku hums, as Obi-Wan makes his trek away, back towards his ship to leave the surface of the neutral world, “But we do not abide by such mass death. Thank you.”

_ ‘The Dark Side is jealousy and devotion of the worst kind,’ _ Obi-Wan thinks,  _ ‘Like the mightiest and greediest of dragons, with a hoard of people instead of gold.’ _

“I’d thank the doctors before I'd thank me,” Obi-Wan replies simply, a sharp smile forced onto a face it does not belong on.

“We tried,” Feemor says, and Obi-Wan shakes his head.

“Trying doesn't mean anything. We made progress. That's what matters.”

His heart is lighter, when he enters the ship.

**Author's Note:**

> \- dooku wasn't actually being sexist, but he WAS being mildly speciest in assuming that the t'karian would be the more hands-on doctor  
> \- fir and maiza do not know this. maiza is like three thousand years old ofc she's going to assume he's being a sexist piece of shit  
> \- i don't know if i'm going to continue this? i might.  
> \- taina is baby  
> \- i'm still on my 'dark side is jealous love with no care for the safety of people outside your orbit' bit


End file.
